englyn for Roger Rivard

Roger Rivard’s so sleazy
he said some girls rape easy
smirked between friends, all breezy

***my offering for Dverse.  We are playing with englyns today.  The above is a soldier’s englyn.

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , | 30 Comments

writing on stone with water

writing on stone with water
is an exercise of impermanence–
what is true and brought out
dissipates. what is written by water on stone
whether shaped with force or tenderness
unbecomes as fast as it becomes;
that first letter vanishes
as the last is painted

no matter how deep
that brush enters the well,
the words do not stay.
so.

without sound to carry it,
or paper to hold the stain
for other eyes

what would you write?

i would write
over and over
my own name

then maybe my mother’s
or my sister’s, my father’s.
and yours

until finally
the exercise is learned. what is written
in water cannot stay

and then
i would just write
yeses in a chain
that never become yes

but always almost yes
before they disappear

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awakening

what do i know
this moment rising
from a dream still swimming
behind eyelids
i keep closed

awareness weaves itself
the shuttle/my breath
pulse stretching throat
to speech

this my sunrise

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vengeance movies nonwithstanding

 

i want to write poetry about chrysanthemums
licking yellow & bronze along sidewalks,
& rivaling leaves in their burn
or how my creek, frosted clear now from algae
carries those leaves in fleets of color
into that great lake,
but i am again telling a story
poured deep into dust that is always thirsty;
words that stink of iron & stain everything

whose hands are clean? not mine.
they will never be clean
while children bleed the price of speech
or not speaking, while we break our young
against things harder than stone
of our own making

songs of love & flowers must wait
because blood shouts discordant & flat
covers everything else
until it is played through to the ending

i keep telling myself
all those movies are wrong–
vigilante justice is not justice
but revenge

& a murderer
of a murderer
is still a murderer

 

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day of the girl (the sun goddesses remembered)

I am tired of differences–
tell me again how this body
is pulled by the moon
in its tides, hormones
alternately softening minds
and sharpening tongues

as if somehow female minds are less
because ovaries steep thoughts in estrogen
until they are pink and sweet, too soft
to spin equations with imaginary numbers

girls do not have days everywhere,
only nights where they wane and wax,
sometimes aberrantly chasing sun in daylight,
anemic silver pressed fainting into blue,
the moon in her cycles and circles a cool mirror
for us, where the sun is male.

before we were moons only Aditi, the light keeper
birthed the universe.  Aine first sparked life.
Akycha was the polar sun who climbed sky after her rape.
Amaterasu still rises, the great shining heaven,
a red circle on a white flag.  Bast was the cat goddess
of sunsets and fertile rays coaxing seed from the earth.
Beiwe poured light like water on growing things
and they reached for her with an intensity like thirst.
Bila the cannibal simmered flesh over her giant flame,
until she was chained to earth and left to tend the sun.
brigid glows in all things fire.  shy Chup-Kamui
traded places with the sun god because
the passion she shone on at night made her blush.
Coyote charmed Hekoolas to light the world.
Pattini radiates the sun’s heat. Olwen rolled in the sky–
a heavy gold wheel.
Saule/Sunna/Sol/Xatel-Ekwa/Wurusemu/Arinna
galloped towards sunset, teaming their horses.
Sekhmet’s hunger was the heat of drought and famine.
Shapash carried light into the land of the dead.
Uelanuhi separated time.
Walo and Wuriupranili walked sky,
arcing over the earth.

before we were made less
the sun could be a goddess
or tend it like a cooking fire
or drive it across the sky

today’s sun is shared
so let the girls stretch to meet it.

it is their day

***my poem for tomorrow–the International Day of the Girl Child.  Thanks to Boomie for critiquing this for me!

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the price of a voice (for Malala)

when a child speaks
what makes her words
so dangerous
you would gag her
with lead?

what code of honor
that is spoken or written
exists for women
or their children
in this place
where girls are burned
by acid
for going to school;
where learning
is criminal,
where book bags are hidden
like contraband,
a dangerous heroin
of minds flowering
into thought

yes, Malala was taught
& Malala wrote
of beatings & bodies
hung along the streets;
the bitter fruit
of the swat valley
an angry truth
pressed into wine
poured out into ether
instead of staining earth

but to speak
for the voiceless
& against the machine
that crushes them
leads to more
than balance
& peace prizes

targeted & hit, Malala
pays with blood
but not necessarily
her life, a 14-year-old girl
such a frail enemy
drugged & swollen to silence

i pray she lives
& that that spirit
pacing & caged
too large for her child’s mind
was not cut away
with the bullet they took
from her brain

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , | 20 Comments

the math of cats

cats have a geometry
difficult to capture
in lines that soften & go fluid
tapering to sharp angles

perhaps it is best
to express motion in points
on a graph
as they calculate
the precise distance
from sill to piano top

predict the length of skid
across sheet music
& how much loose music
will sigh to the floor
in falling chords

as a new trajectory
from piano top
to doorframe
is executed

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , | 16 Comments